When I returned, Beast had dragged himself closer to the fire, his massive head resting on his paws, eyes half-closed with pain. The sight of him wounded because of me made my chest ache with guilt and something deeper, more possessive. No one would hurt him again. Not while I drew breath.
“This will sting,” I warned, kneeling beside him. I dampened a cloth and began to clean the gash on his side, revealing how deep the wolf’s claws had cut.
Beast jerked away with a snarl when I applied the spirits to the wound, his teeth bared in warning, eyes suddenly wild with pain.
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down.
“Stop thy tantrum,” I said firmly, meeting his glare with one of my own. “I cannot help thee if thou fights me. Now lie still and let me tend thy wounds properly.”
He growled again, softer this time, but settled back down. I continued cleaning the wound, careful but thorough, making sure no dirt or debris remained that might cause infection. Once I was satisfied, I bound it with clean rags, wrapping them firmly around his middle.
“There,” I said, sitting back on my heels to examine my work. “That should hold until it starts to heal. Thou art lucky they didn’t get thy throat.”
His eyes never left my face as I worked, watching me with an intensity that made my skin warm despite the circumstances. When I moved to clean the smaller cuts on his legs and face, he stayed perfectly still, only the occasional flinch betraying his discomfort.
“Thank you,” I whispered when I’d finished, my voice catching in my throat. “For saving me. Again. I was so afraid...” I swallowed hard, fighting back unexpected tears. “I was afraid I would lose thee. And I cannot lose thee, Beast. Not thee too. Not after everyone else.”
The admission cost me something to voice aloud, some final barrier of pride or self-protection. But it was worth it to see the change in his early evening eyes. The softening, the understanding, the response to my vulnerability with his own.
Beast lifted his massive head and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against mine in a gesture so tender it made my breath catch. We stayed like that for a long moment, sharing breath and warmth, communicating without words what neither of us could fully express.
“I know,” I whispered, reaching up to stroke the fur between his ears. “I know.”
And I did know. Whatever happened next—whether Gaspard found us, whether we broke the curse, whether I ever understood my connection to this place—we would face it together. Beast and I, bound by something stronger than fear or necessity or even the primal claiming that had first joined us.
As the fire crackled beside us and night settled fully over the cursed forest, I let myself acknowledge what my heart had already decided. I loved him. And I would fight wolves, witches, and my own past to keep him safe.
twenty-four
Gaspard
My boots sank into the soggy earth with each step, black mud sucking at the leather like hungry mouths desperate to pull me into the depths. Three days of galloping travel had brought us to this godforsaken place, where even the air felt wrong against my skin. Too thick, too damp, carrying scents of decay and something older that made my medallion burn cold against my chest.
Isabeau’s torn dress remained tucked inside my hunting vest, her scent still clinging to the fabric despite the journey. I pressed my hand against it occasionally, like touching a talisman, reminding myself why I ventured into this cursed bog where men weren’t meant to tread.
“Master Gaspard,” Alf wheezed behind me, his voice thin with exhaustion and fear. “The sun wanes. Perhaps we ought to make camp and continue our search on the morrow?”
I didn’t bother turning around. The tremor in his voice told me everything. His eyes would be darting between twisted trees like a cornered rabbit, his round face slick with sweat despite the chill. Pathetic. But useful enough to carry my equipment.
“We continue,” I said simply, pushing aside a curtain of moss that hung from a half-dead tree. “The witch’s hut lies just beyond this thicket. I can feel it.”
And I could. The medallion my grandfather had passed down grew colder with each step, responding to the proximity of old magic. This wasn’t the sanitized power the church claimed to channel through holy water and communion wine. This was something primal, something that had existed long before men built stone cathedrals and appointed themselves intermediaries to God.
“How dost thou know for certain?” Alf stumbled as his boot caught on an exposed root. The pack of supplies on his back shifted precariously, nearly toppling him into a stagnant pool beside our makeshift path. “No one has returned from these bogs in living memory.”
I suppressed the urge to strike him for questioning me. His fear made him stupid, but I still needed his hands to carry what I could not.
“No one with purpose has entered them,” I corrected, pushing forward. “Only fools and drunkards who wandered too far from known paths. I know exactly what I seek.”
What I sought, what consumed my every waking thought, was revenge. The image of Isabeau in that monster’s bed had branded itself onto my mind like hot iron on flesh. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw her sleeping form, her perfect shoulder bearing the beast’s teeth marks, her face peaceful in a way it had never been while under my roof.
The betrayal of it. The perversion. She belonged to me, had been promised to me by every law of nature that declared the strong should possess the beautiful.
And I would have her back, even if I had to burn down the forest and everyone in it.
The terrain grew more treacherous as we pressed deeper into the bog. Mist curled around our ankles like living things, thick enough in places that I couldn’t see where I was stepping until my foot had already committed to the ground. Strange lights flickered between distant trees—will-o’-wisps, my grandfather had called them. Spirits of men who had died in the marshes, trying to lure others to join them.
I ignored them, keeping my eyes forward, guided by the increasing cold of the medallion against my skin.
